


Bro Code

by astrosaur



Category: Sexy Zone
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, FumaSou friendship ftw, I'm tempted to tag this as Oedipus complex..., M/M, friendship angst (which is most definitely A Thing), unrequited love-type angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 04:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrosaur/pseuds/astrosaur
Summary: Fuma's interest in Kento is not unique, not even within his own band.





	1. Chapter 1

            “What’s this about? You can’t be that proud of making girls scream because you used Matsushima as a stripper pole.” Fuma’s question is one of genuine curiosity, not bothering with any pretense of dissent that Kento is crowding him flat against the wall. After all, he did voluntarily follow Kento behind the racks, and has since kicked their discarded coats off to the side. Fuma’s amenable to the turn of events, to say the least.

            “When you hit that note,” Kento rasps, mouthing Fuma’s exposed shoulder and scraping his teeth against the pale curvature. Nimble fingers go straight for Fuma’s zipper. “When you hit that note, it does things to me. It’s so distracting I can’t even be jealous of you anymore.”

            Fuma literally shrugs him off his shoulder and chucks Kento’s chin up to bring his face within eye-level. When he gradually guides the other man closer, he’s met with an impatient demand to forgo any build-up. To be fair, at the first brush of Kento’s lips, Fuma lets him in without needing prodding. “Really riles you up, huh,” Fuma groans before taking full advantage of the access given to him.

            Kento rests his forearms on the wall on either side of Fuma’s head while tilting his own to savor their mutual intrusion. He instinctively scuffles his feet apart, seeking out configurations that allow him to feel more of Fuma’s body on his.

            It gives Fuma enough space to wedge a thigh between Kento’s, pushing up to the seat of his pants. Kento throws his head back, barely able to hold back an embarrassing sound. Though out of his mind with desire, he’s all too aware that anyone from the group or the staff could pass by them at any moment, check in on suspicious noises if they were to let any out. Kento pulls his lips between gritted teeth as his waist gyrates and finds him firm resistance where he needs it.

            Fuma takes Kento’s outstretched neck as invitation, encasing it with puffed lips and hot breath, before migrating to Kento’s ears. Kento fists Fuma’s hair as it gets progressively harder for him to stay quiet. There’s a loud bang at the door that startles them both, though not enough to let each other go. While Kento stills, Fuma doesn’t even stop his quest to cover Kento’s ear with his mouth, tonguing and nibbling over the shell of it.

            “Kiss me, kiss me!” Kento hisses, not to be romantic, but because he can feel it – either in the form of actual words or nonsensical sounds – bubbling up his chest, threatening to ring out into the corridor.

            Fuma complies, tongue sliding back home against Kento’s, muffling dangerous sounds that their feverish rutting extracts from him. Kento’s thrusts have become short little snaps that pin Fuma firmly to the wall, and Fuma responds by grabbing a hold of Kento’s hips, guiding him to arch further into him. Kento hits Fuma’s shoulder, himself unsure if it’s to get the younger man to ease up or to hurry.

             When Fuma eases Kento’s underwear low on his hips and gets a hand around him, Kento breaks their kiss and covers his mouth with his palm. His eyes are wild, pupils blown, arousal and panic mingling as the faint shuffling from outside continues. The sounds almost seem far away, far from the charged-up haze that shields them from the rest of the world. Fuma is determined to maintain the illusion, pumping Kento’s erection at an increasingly frenzied pace. Kento smacks the spot next to the wall where Fuma’s head is propped up, needing some way to alleviate the tension and curb the need to vocalize the sensations.

            Soon, it becomes impossible to worry about anything that isn’t Fuma’s strong hand swiping over his length, or the answering pressure on his perineum when he rolls his hips down. Kento fears he might lose consciousness as he lets the lower half of his body move in the manner that it wants to, submits all control in favor of its fixated ambition. He prays he isn’t as loud as the pounding in his chest when he lets it all go, giving into the pleasure in Fuma’s grip. His eyes are screwed shut as he stifles sharp gasps into his palm.

            Fuma hasn’t relinquished his grip on him, and Kento bats him away when it gets to be too much. It takes some time to catch his breath while Fuma traces his profile with messy kisses, his hardness an insistent presence at Kento’s hip.

            “What about you? Should we switch, or…?” Kento offers raggedly.

            Fuma catches himself from emitting a groan that would’ve been louder than anything they’ve let slip. It’s too close a call, and Fuma’s been on the edge for too long, so he only lets a single word out. “Just.”

            Kento apparently understands, standing straighter and easing off of the leg slotted between his. He watches Fuma with half-lidded eyes, shedding his underwear before helping Fuma step out of his. He taps on Fuma’s shoulders, gesturing for him to adjust his stance. Fuma rests his weight on the wall behind him and widens the gap between his feet, making himself a little shorter for Kento.

            When Kento has Fuma where he wants him, he pins Fuma’s shoulders to the wall and stands between his legs. He takes Fuma’s mucky hand, wipes the mess he’d made onto his own skin, smearing it over his inner thighs. After slicking up his thighs, he guides Fuma’s cock between them while holding his own to his belly.

            Fuma breathes out harshly as the soft, sticky skin pillows his straining length. His hands land back on Kento’s hips, but they’re powerless to do anything more than hold on while Kento thrusts against him.

            A familiar voice reaches their ears, though Fuma only registers it by the way Kento’s head turns slightly to the side, tempted to look over his shoulder. “Don’t stop,” Fuma whines low and needy when Kento hesitates. “Finish this before they catch us in here.”

            Obediently, Kento crosses his legs at the knees to make himself tighter for Fuma until the other is biting his lip hard enough to break skin. Kento reaches behind himself to find where Fuma’s tip pokes out under his ass, and rubs over the leaking slit with his fingertips. The hands on his jutting hips grip like they’re trying to imprint fingerprints, and then a spurt of warmth coats his thighs, adding to the mess, as Fuma’s hushed groans fill his ears.

            The afterglow takes its time to wear off on both ends. They share a wet, languid kiss while keeping an ear open for the distant sounds coming from the world behind the costume rack.

            “Good thing I made you carry that handkerchief this morning,” Kento mumbles as their kisses wind down to almost playful pecking.

            “…Gross. No way I’d carry that around with me all day. You need to tell the costume department to give you pockets.”

            “Don’t be a baby. You can wash it out in the bathroom, it’s not that far away.”

            “The trash can’s much closer.” Fuma grudgingly complies with a pained expression as he cleans them up and slips the soiled cloth back into the back pocket of his costume. “Okay, this is disgusting. I can’t wear this, I’m changing to a different pair of pants.”

            “What are you saying, it’s not like our costumes are mix-and-match.” Kento smiles at him, brimming with artificial innocence. “Besides, you like getting souvenirs, don’t you?”

 

 

*

 

 

            “This one’s too expensive too.” Sou mournfully flips the exorbitant price tag back in place. “Why do I have to pay so much for a bag all because they’ve got wheels on them?”

            Fuma laughs after taking a swift glance at the price. “I’ve seen you fork over thrice that amount at Nakano Broadway for something one-tenth as useful.”

            “You said I should buy those figurines!”

            “What I said was, do whatever it takes so you’ll finally stop yapping about how limited-edition they were,” Fuma corrects him. “Thanks to your dithering, I didn’t have time to look for those boots I wanted.”

            “The boots from that Men’s Non-no spread? We can go look for them now,” Sou suggests.

            Fuma waves him off. “I already checked when you were at the record store. No luck.”

            “Oh, that’s where you went. That’s too bad. Maybe today isn’t a very lucky day.” Then and there, Sou makes a decision. “What if I borrow one of Marius’s bags for our trip? That way, I can buy something I really like later on.”

            Fuma snorts. “That’s such a stroke of genius, I can’t believe no one came up with that before today.”

            Fuma’s mockery is ruthless but justified. Marius had offered to lend one of his many available pieces of luggage for their upcoming overseas shoot, and the other members campaigned for Sou to take the path of least resistance. Sou agreeably nodded along to this proposition each time, and without fail, would later reiterate plans of purchasing a new bag, as though his memory rebooted every couple of days.

            Sou accepts Fuma’s aspersions and genially pats Fuma’s arm like he’s the one tolerating the other one’s eccentricities. “I hope Marius’s bag isn’t as big as this one. I don’t want to have to lug around something this size.”

            Fuma eyes the bag appraisingly. “This size is about right. Otherwise it’ll be a cramped trip for you. The flight to New York is about 13 hours or so.”

            Sou guffaws. “Wait, I’m going in the luggage? Are the plane tickets too expensive?”

            “That was the deal the agency cut – they pay for the five of us to go, but you come as cargo,” Fuma replies with a giggle that almost mirrors Sou’s.

            Somehow, this throwaway gag results in Sou squatting into the recesses of an overpriced trunk. He supposes he walked right into it, literally and figuratively. At first, he’d refused to satisfy Fuma’s curiosity on whether he’d actually fit inside, but then he relented no sooner than a single exchange later. In short, it took less than ten words to goad him into willingly testing the physics of Fuma’s jokes.

            Tucked into walls lined with silky material, Sou folds his knees up and hugs them tightly to his chest, making himself as compact as skeletally possible. Fuma takes this opportunity to sing a bar from _Gyutto_ and makes Sou laugh and lose his concentration, which he unfairly gets berated for.

            Fuma zips the bag all the way closed with Sou inside, needing two tries to fix a spot where Sou’s shirt gets caught in the zipper. Sou’s nerves spike once he’s cloaked in complete darkness and his limbs are confined in place, only relaxing when he hears Fuma’s impish chortling. Fuma sounds far too proud of himself, considering the brunt of the hard work fell on Sou. Sou’s uncertainty turns into indignation when he feels the surface beneath him vibrate.

            “Fuma-kun?! Stop!” Sou wails. “Stop it, small people have rights too!”

            The only response he receives is a warbling “ _Jibun dake wa zettai hanasanaide!_ ” interspersed with snickering.

            After a few seconds of nerve-wracking excitement, Fuma comes to a stop and permits light back into Sou’s range of view. Fuma points and laughs at the dumb expression that Sou must be wearing. Sou reorients himself with his five senses, as Fuma firmly and laughingly helps him to his feet.

            Fuma’s version of an apology is taking Sou to an ice cream store and swiping Sou’s arm when the younger reaches for his wallet. Sou gladly goes along with Fuma’s capricious behavior and pivots his attention to the treats that await him.

            Sou gets paralyzed by the wealth of flavors on display, and Fuma advises him to try whatever catches his fancy. With Fuma’s encouragement, Sou asks for trial after trial up to the point that he isn’t embarrassed to be holding up the line. Fuma doesn’t rush him along, he simply bows to the people behind them who then shake their heads and engage in a showdown of politeness. Sou has to bite back a grin when he sees Fuma getting caught up in a round of head-lowering. At times, he can’t tell where Fuma’s innate personality ends and where Kento’s influence begins. As starkly opposite as two people can be, Sou catches reflections of Kento in Fuma and vice versa, reflections that both of them would likely dispute if he were to bring it up.

            Kento and Fuma’s inextricable occupancy in each other’s lives is one of those basic truths that Sou has never had to question. Being reminded of it stirs recollections of a promise he’d made to himself – a promise to bring up a question that he’s been postponing for a while now.

            He’d gone back and forth about whether he should push through with his plans. Up to now, he’s still on the fence about it, in spite of all the preparation that’s already been put into it. Although second thoughts continue to linger, he hates the thought that those efforts – and the weight of emotions behind them – could go in vain. It’s this very thought that bolsters him to get this crucial step done once and for all.

            After paying for their treats, Fuma steers them past the crowds and towards the exit, signaling to Sou to keep up with him. After gathering his quickly withering resolve, Sou blurts out, “Would it be okay with you if I gave Kento-kun a birthday gift?”

            Fuma doesn’t stop walking, but he turns to face Sou. “You want to personally deliver our gift to him? Or you want to get him another one, just from you?”

            Every instinct in Sou’s terror-fritzed brain is suddenly telling him to lie, and he has to studiously overcome them. He has no idea if he can trust the fact that Fuma appears unbothered by his impudence. “…The second one.”

            When an emotion seeps through to Fuma’s otherwise perfectly straight face, it’s merely unadulterated confusion. “You don’t need to ask permission for that. I’m not the birthday gift police. I hope you’re not asking for help shopping or paying for it, because then that kind of defeats the purpose of getting him something on your own.”

            “No, no, I wouldn’t make you do that!” Sou is not that brazen, nowhere near that gauche. “I only wanted to check with you. I mean… are you buying Kento-kun anything aside from the one we all chipped in for?”

            Fuma instantly shakes his head.

            “Right. Well, that’s why I’m asking. If you think I shouldn’t, I won’t go through with it. Even though I’m not, like. I mean, I’m not trying to… um. Get something… accomplished… by getting him a gift. That’s not my objective. N-not that I have one! I don’t have an objective.”

            Fuma arches an eyebrow. “At least I’ve figured out what we’re getting you for _your_ next birthday. Hopefully someone will have invented a Matsushima-translator by November.”

            Sou’s chest is fit to burst with internal commotion that doesn’t lend itself well to lingual translation. “I don’t want to overstep.”

            “Alright. You’re concerned that if you buy Nakajima a gift that comes solely from you, you’d be acting out of turn. And for this reason, you need my consent to move forward,” Fuma summarizes Sou’s words in a bid to ascertain their meaning. “That means… you think I’m dating Nakajima. Or that I own him in some capacity.”

            “Y-you aren’t? Dating?” A part of Sou wants his question to go unanswered. Verbal confirmation would be nice, but most likely, it won’t leave his heart intact.

            Fuma takes a few too many heartbeats to respond. “Matsushima, be realistic. How would Nakajima and I manage to keep something like that under wraps? And even if that were the case, only an asshole would ban people from giving gifts to the person they’re dating.” He keeps his laser-sharp eyes trained on Sou. “Regardless of the kind of feelings motivating those gifts.”

            Sou goes numb from head to toe.

 

 

*

 

 

            The thing is, there’s a good chance Fuma isn’t lying in saying that he and Kento aren’t dating. They’re certainly reaping the benefits of mutual trust and attraction, relying on the convenience of their proximity…

            There’s a term for that. It isn’t necessarily “dating”.

            Either way, Sou is hugely mistaken thinking Fuma lays some sort of claim to Kento. Although to be fair, it’s an assumption more than one person has. It’s a myth Kento and Fuma perpetuate themselves: that their partnership is a cut above the rest, written in the stars. It’s easy to see that informing Sou’s premise: Fuma was first, and that means he has dibs.

            “There’s no need for you to freeze up like this,” Fuma sighs.

            Sou hasn’t touched the plate he’d ordered on Fuma’s dime, and the older of the two would prefer not to see his hard-earned money go to waste. Fuma tries one more time to restart his malfunctioning companion. “Nakajima and I don’t talk about that sort of thing. He’s not going to hear about this from me.”

            Sou continues to stare forlornly at the floor, taking great pains to avoid eye contact. “No one was supposed to find out. Shori and Marius figured it out too, though.”

            “You’re not exactly a paragon of mystery in every other aspect of your life.”

            “I was seriously keeping this one a secret. Especially from you and Kento-kun.”

            Fear makes its way back into Sou’s expression, and by instinct, Fuma adopts an exasperated affectation that the younger members have come to equate with brotherly concern. “I told you, don’t worry about it. Stop acting like the world’s about to end.”

            “If you guys were able to tell, what’s to say that Kento-kun won’t?” Sou says in a small voice.

            “Let’s say he does. What’s the worst that could happen? I know Nakajima,” Fuma reminds him. “Whatever he already knows or might find out in the future, he won’t let it come between you two. He definitely won’t let it touch the group. Honestly, he treats you like a girlfriend and caters to you like he’s paid to do it – what did he think was going to happen?”

            Fuma is well aware that Sou is not the first person to develop these feelings for his partner, nor will he be the last.

            Fans, co-stars, and classmates have picked and chosen parts of Kento to love. More will follow in their footsteps, just as Sou followed in Fuma’s. Fuma may have had more time to fall in love with all the parts of Kento that the public has divvied up among themselves, but who’s to say someone like Sou isn’t equally susceptible to the sum of those parts? Someone like Sou, having spent his formative years under Kento’s care, might take it all into account. From the sensual swagger admired by Juniors to the bashful deference for their seniors. The flighty meanderings bordering on delusion, to the diligent acumen that they’ve come to lean on. The knight-in-shining-armor persona, and the cracks in the mask smuggling glimpses of naked vulnerability.

          If others like Sou could see what Fuma sees, that leaves Fuma with the one single concrete line drawing him apart from the rest. The arrangement that he and Kento have yet to verbally acknowledge. Perhaps that separates Fuma from the others, if Fuma’s the only one getting pulled into corners for borrowed time in the shadows? Wouldn’t that be enough reason to stand his ground, dig his heels in?

          Sou bows lower, letting his bangs cover his eyes. “It doesn’t mean he’ll be okay with me marching up to him with a confession. If you were me, wouldn’t you keep it to yourself?”

            Fuma’s response comes out a little more snappish than he intends. “I’m not giving or withholding permission for anything you want to do. Quit roping me into business that you’re supposed the handle on your own.”

            “I’m sorry.” Sou holds his hands up in surrender. “I couldn’t be sure about what was going on with you guys. But… what if I were asking for your opinion? Not your approval?”

            What is Fuma’s opinion? It’s difficult to separate it from his own circumstances. He can’t wrap his mind around Sou’s situation without admitting to himself that he and Kento first have to sit down and make heads or tails of their… extracurricular activities. He can’t remove Sou’s question out of his own context, in which he and Kento have gone too long letting their relationship’s evolution-slash-mutation go unchecked and undefined.

            Try as he might, Kento isn’t always successful in hiding the fact that he wants to talk about it in grisly detail, particularly in those moments when adrenaline has petered out and they’ve returned to their places under the light of day. But Kento has been holding back because he wants to be sure that Fuma’s ready to have that discussion. Fuma is sure of this. Kento needs him to take it out of his hands, to be the one to either break his heart or offer a home for its safekeeping. And the gift of control that Kento hardly ever surrenders only gives Fuma pause, this time.

            Fuma shakes his head, aiming to shed that surplus perspective – it’s not what Sou needs now. “Forget me for a second. Forget the image you have of me and Nakajima, forget your predictions on what anyone has to say on the subject. Answer one question. Do you want to confess to him?”

            “No,” Sou answers without hesitation. Then, “I don’t know.”

            “Good, that’s decided.” (Yes, Fuma is a hypocrite. Everyone has flaws. Move along.)

            “There are days when it’s too much, and I want him to know everything,” Sou admits. “But then I think about what might happen. It’s scary. It’s not as if he sees me the same way, I’m not dumb enough to hope for that. Mostly, I don’t want to put anyone in a stressful position. I don’t want to be the reason things get weird in the group. I don’t want things to get weird, period.”

            Fuma wants to assure him and say that he understands, except he doesn’t know how Sou would take that. “This is going to have to be your decision,” he says instead. “I can listen. I can listen for as long as you need, but I can’t weigh in. It does sound like you’re thinking this through, which is good. You have keep at it and arrive at the decision on your own.” Sou’s raw look of burdened indecision fuels Fuma to add, “For what it’s worth, I trust that you’ll arrive at the right one.”

            Now, it’d be great if Fuma could replenish that supply of conviction in equal measure for himself.

 

 

*

 

 

            The crick in Kento’s neck won’t go away, and it’s unlikely he’ll find a cure for it in Fuma’s room. If anything, he’s risking further injury by way of vigorous activities. A guy can hope, at least.

            But between sleeping on the plane and going right back to napping on the ride from the airport to their hotel, he and Fuma hadn’t seen a lot of each other. After spending close to 15 hours comatose, Kento is wide awake and jet-lagged, and there are better things to do than toss and turn in bed.

            Energized for more than one reason, Kento bounds up Fuma’s bedroom and raps rhythmically on his door. “Hey, it’s me.”

            “I’m busy.”

            Kento rolls his eyes. “If you let me in, I can help you unpack.”

            It takes another ten seconds until the door is being opened for him. “You can’t stay past my bedtime,” Fuma informs him. “You’ve got less than an hour to entertain yourself, and then you’ve got to head back.”

            “I have a time limit? I wasn’t expecting that, especially now that we have a room to ourselves.”

            Fuma nods to the corner of his room where he stowed his rolling luggage. “My stuff’s over there. Have at it.”

            Kento ignores the comment that can’t possibly be serious. He climbs into Fuma’s bed and stretches onto his back with a contented sigh. He lets his muscles indulge in the elongation after hours of being contorted in the same position. The sensation is almost enough to distract him from the fact that Fuma isn’t joining him.

            He props himself up on his elbows and observes Fuma, steadfastly perched on the desk on the far side of the room. “How long are you going to stay there?”

            Fuma shrugs. “For as long as my bed’s occupied.”

            In silence, Kento works out the puzzle he’s been given. His eyes widen when a theory develops. “Is this, like, some kink thing?” he asks, failing to conceal his trepidation. “I’d need to be prepared for that.”

            “It’s not a kink,” Fuma replies, incredulous. “Maybe I’m not in the mood to deal with people right now. Especially people who turn up, uninvited, expecting to get laid.”

            Kento sits up, alarmed by the adversarial tone. Tension reenters his body in an instant. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to saddle you with the displeasure of my company.”

            “You didn’t come here to keep me company.” Fuma replaces his prior heat with aloof neutrality, but his efforts do little to calm Kento’s nerves.

            “Can we start over? We can hang out. It’s not like we have to—” Kento cuts himself off, unable to complete his sentence out loud. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Let’s hang out.”

            “There’s no need to hold back on my account, though.” Fuma has officially gone from fatigued to inscrutable. “You’re horny, right? You can do something about it. This is New York. People are up at this time of night. More importantly, people who won’t go running to the tabloids.”

            Kento is certain that he’s missing something. “I’m not— What are you trying to say?”

            “I’m saying, there’s no excuse to only turn to me when you’re in a city like this. Check if Marius is awake, then he can teach you how to say ‘do you want to sleep with me’ in English.”

            Kento flushes as he instigates a stare down that goes unrequited, a futile effort to extrapolate Fuma’s motivations.

            Fuma’s line of vision continues to evade Kento as he says, “Good luck, I guess. I’d like to have my bed back. I’m turning in.”

            “First, can you tell me where this is coming from?”

            “What? I’m trying to help. You came in here acting like I owed you something—”

            “I do not think you owe me anything!” Kento interjects.

            Fuma continues, overlapping with him. “—but it’s not like you and I are in a relationship. We aren’t even dating.”

            Kento reels back like he was struck in the gut, chest caving in.

            Fuma keeps going without letting him recover. “Sure, we’ve used each other more times than I can count, and yet we’ve never talked about it once. So, really, there’s nothing stopping you from leaving this room and going after what you want, is there?”

            “We aren’t using each other,” Kento contends. “I haven’t brought it up because I thought you didn’t want to talk about it yet.”

            “Or it’s ‘cause you knew that as soon as one of us brings it up, it’d be putting an end to it.”

            “No! Why would—?”

            “Because it’s not… sustainable,” Fuma says. “Because we’re idols. Because it goes against the promise we made to put the group above everything else. And because you’re not done presenting yourself as available, whether in public or in private. Those are all the things we would have talked about it if we bothered to talk in the first place.”

            The hurt bleeds out through little punctures made by the subtle accusations slung at him. He has to curb the instinct to run and try and plug the holes, keep it from seeping out. The last one especially stings. He knows Fuma’s not fond of his flirtatiousness, but he didn’t think it bothered him to the extent that it disqualified Kento from his dating pool. “Kikuchi, if you want out, then say so. Don’t try to convince me that we’re on the same page on this, because right now, it doesn’t sound like we are.”

            Fuma lets out a rough exhale. “It doesn’t exactly help that you close off whenever things don’t go your way.”

            Kento makes an injured sound that finally gets Fuma to back off a little. Fuma cuts through the high-strung atmosphere they conjointly created. “We need time to think. I’m gonna go for a walk and clear my head.” He grabs the keycard from his desk and makes his way out the door, not sparing a backward glance.

            Kento watches the door shut behind Fuma, speechless.

            Kento can’t fathom what prompted such an abrupt change of mind on an understanding they both benefited from. The only thing he could be sure of is that whatever inspired that about-face was far more substantial than a whim or a mood.

            The only probable conclusion Kento comes to makes him frown. Fuma has someone else – that has to be the reason.

            Fuma is loyal to a fault – to the group, his family, his friends. If anything can make him renounce consistent, consequence-free gratification (albeit mired in ambiguities), it would be a compulsion to do right by someone important to him.

            Kento can’t come up with any suspects behind the theft of Fuma’s attentions. It’s possible he’s got blinders on, preventing him from noticing that Fuma’s been paving a way to a committed relationship with someone else. Unfortunately, Kento can’t reach out to their network to investigate. Nearly every one of their shared contacts is friends with Fuma first before they’re friends with Kento.

            Fuma is smarter and funnier than most people he meets, and it isn’t long before people notice that he’s also personable, making those first few traits endearing rather than intimidating. He’s present in each moment he’s in, forming genuine bonds with others while commanding the room, brightening it up with antics or subtle eloquence. Whether his mood runs hot or cold, he’s always armed with a rich set of values that steadies his head above sea-level.

            Everyone knows that all the above are exemplary makings of a best friend – it’s somewhat rarer that they acknowledge these characteristics as exemplary makings of a partner. Fuma is the best kind of person there is, and it’s unavoidable that someone besides Kento would recognize this and try to take action on it. More effectual action, at that.

            Compared to Fuma, Kento might really be self-centered and stuck-up and fake, all those nasty things he’s been suspected of. Maybe that’s why Fuma finally tired of him and found someone more his speed, a person who better fits his criteria for a romantic partner.

            Kento’s thoughts turn darker the longer he ruminates on this, and it persuades him to heed his most corrupt impulses. Why not? Apparently, he’s the kind of person who doesn’t pass muster for a physical relationship – let alone a fully-fledged one – with a man who knows him better than anyone ever has. His diabolical scheme comes easily to him… He’s going to hack Fuma.

            He’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way, because he’s an idol and not a software programmer. He scours Fuma’s room in search for the latter’s phone, as he undoubtedly left it lying around unattended somewhere. And bingo, it’s sitting right on top of the mini-fridge.

            Kento unlocks it without difficulty, as Fuma can’t be bothered to memorize more than one pin. Without compunctions, he proceeds to rummage through Fuma’s inbox, combing through the message history to pick out suspicious patterns. When that comes up short, he snoops around the call logs, and similarly finds that there’s no name appearing a disproportionate number of times.

            The outcome of his petty crime is a deduction that Fuma must have gone through the trouble of sweeping his phone of evidence, keeping no-good meddlers out of his all-of-a-sudden-too-private life. Despite lacking the proof, Kento is sure that Fuma is hiding something from him. He owes it to his sanity to get to the bottom of this and discover where Fuma’s interests have veered off to.

            

            

            


	2. Chapter 2

            The cafe at the museum looks a lot like a high school cafeteria – it’s not necessarily what Sou had in mind. He and Kento share a large booth with a family of eight, a loud and friendly bunch that pays no mind to Kento fixing Sou’s hair, braiding it to the hairline to prevent the longer strands from falling into his eyes.

            Ambience notwithstanding, it’s nice. Sou gets to share extravagant desserts with Kento that he would have never chosen on his own. He’d left the decision up to Kento, who subsequently passed the decision on to the cute waitress behind the counter.

            When Sou glances at his phone, dread makes his chest constrict at the absence of new messages. “Marius hasn’t replied to me since this morning. Do you think he ditched the others?” When the five of them split up that morning, Marius had tagged along with Fuma and Shori, opting to go shopping instead of museum-hopping.

            “I haven’t heard from them in a while. The last message I got was from Shori, and that was at least a couple of hours ago.”

            “Shori messaged you? What did he say?”

            Kento ponders the question, seemingly with the mental exertion that would be required to determine the meaning of life. “I don’t remember.”

            “Did you even read it?” Sou laughs. “You’re really distracted. You need to sleep longer than two hours.”

            “I’ll sleep longer tonight,” Kento declares. “I better, if I went so far as sacrificing my coffee order.”

            “It’s 4:30 and you have to get real sleep tonight! You heard your manager,” Sou says, defending his earlier insistence to dissuade Kento from ingesting anything caffeinated. “You don’t normally get insomnia this badly, do you? Is there something you usually do to help you fall asleep?”

            Kento tilts his head wonderingly. As he thinks on it, he starts to noticeably space off. Sou may not know him as well as Fuma does, but he has started to pick up on proclivities such as these. “Kenty, you’re far away again.”

            Kento shakes himself out of his own reverie. “Sorry. I was thinking about that sculpture just now.”

            “The cool one?” Sou guesses. “The one that made those shadows on the wall?” They spent a lot of time enthusing about that one.

            “No, the one that had those mannequins made out of recycled materials. They were posed in everyday kind of scenes.”

            “Oh.” Sou remembers Kento lingering in that exhibit, too, staring at the pieces with the scrutiny of an art connoisseur. “I liked that one. I didn’t get it, really.”

            Kento turns to Sou and laughs. It’s not mocking, it’s mostly fond, with a teensy shade of self-satisfaction.

            Sou echoes him with a far more sheepish rendering. “I didn’t get why they used recycled materials. But I liked that I could kind of understand the scenes that were showing, even though they kind of seemed personal. And there were some figures with paintings over their faces. So, it was like, going through these ordinary, everyday scenes and still having something covering their faces.”

            A slow smile makes its way onto Kento’s face. “You and Marius are really growing up before my eyes.”

            Both embarrassed and delighted, Sou grins back. “Spoken like a true proud mama!”

            “You guys are never going to let that die, huh?” In contrast with his words, Kento doesn’t look too bothered. “I have to say, I did have that parental feeling that first time you paid for our dinner. It made me remember when I treated my parents out with my first paycheck.”

            “Was it a good feeling when you let me pay for the two of us?” Sou wants to know.

            “It was strange.” Kento exudes warmth and affection despite his assessment. “That pride that comes with it is no joke. It made me think, ‘Ah, I’ve really done something with my life.’”

            Butterflies start to invade Sou’s belly. “Really?”

            “I’ll always have that.” The next words to come out of Kento’s mouth take Sou by surprise. “Speaking of growing up, do you think any of the members are seeing anyone right now? Back in Tokyo, I mean.”

            Well, yes, Sou did think that, up until recently. He still can’t believe that he’d been mistaken about it, in fact. He hedges with a safe response. “I just know Marius won’t stop talking about the student he met in that summit he attended last year. …Why do you ask?”

            Kento points to Sou’s hands. “You keep checking your phone. I thought you might be waiting for a girlfriend to respond to you.”

            “I’m waiting for Marius to answer me, and he is definitely not my girlfriend.” Sou turns his phone over so he isn’t tempted to glance at it every ten seconds. Half-jokingly, he adds, “I’m surprised you noticed. I thought you were off on your own world this whole time.”

            “No girlfriend for you then?” Kento needles him lightheartedly.

            “Nothing like that.” Sou clears his throat, covering up the waver in his voice. “What about Kento-kun?”

            Automatically, Kento answers, “I have hundreds of thousands of honeys.”

            Sou barely manages not to face-plant at the response that he should have seen coming. “Outside of our fans? Or Bonita?”

            Kento sobers to give him a slightly more mundane response, which still comes off polished and shrouded. “I’ve been made aware that I’m not dating anyone, at this time.”

            Sou doesn’t understand why Kento has to speak in such a convoluted way. He grapples for a fitting response, but a long-awaited message diverts his attention and gets him on his feet. “It’s ready! It’s ready!”

            Kento blinks up at him, understandably baffled. “What’s ready?”

            “Let’s go! We’ve paid, right?” Sou takes the jacket he’d slung over the back of his chair and shrugs it on. “Come on! Are you ready? Do you need to use the bathroom? You can use the bathroom.”

            “…I appreciate you giving me the green light for that. What’s the matter, are you running after something?”

            “We’ve got one more stop. It’s really close, though. We won’t have to take the subway.”

            “Alright, alright. Do you want to get dinner already? We just had cakes.”

            “Oh, two more stops,” Sou amends. “There’s something you need to see before dinner. Come on.”

            Despite Sou’s emphatic urging, he doesn’t force them into a hurried pace. On the way to their destination, he lets Kento dictate a leisurely tempo in the tourist lane, letting locals stride past them in city-slicker struts. Kento also stops in the middle of the street to pull out earphones for them to share, one in Kento’s ear and the other in Sou’s. Although Sou bows to the couple that had almost crashed into them after they suddenly stopped walking, he feels no remorse over it, too engrossed in singing along to the Hey! Say! JUMP song that Kento cued up on his phone.

            When they arrive at Carnegie Hall, Sou joins Kento in taking photos of the impressive façade, turning a deaf ear to the imaginary ticking of a clock making inroads from the back of his mind. The second Kento gets his fill of documenting the front of the building, Sou ushers him in.

            Inside, Sou keeps to a brisk walk, curbing the urge to run up to the security guard and make sure that their time doesn’t run out. He takes out his phone and shows the guard the message that Marius took his sweet time composing for him.

            “What’s going on?” Kento inquires. “Did you sign us up for a tour?”

            “I’ll explain in a bit.” Sou winces apologetically as he is herded to another man clad in head-to-toe black. It takes two more hand-offs to various building employees to find the person that nods warmly and takes them to the auditorium that Sou rented out.

            “Thank you!” Sou bows at their guide after she drops them off in front of a grandiose door along the carpeted hall. He turns to beam at Kento, weathering the pesky, counterproductive butterflies that have yet to leave him alone. “Are you ready?”

            “It’s the fifth time you’ve asked that!” Kento claims. “If I knew what I’m supposed to be ready for, I’d be able to answer you.”

            “You’re right, you’re right.” Sou chuckles out his nerves and moves to open the door, but Kento pushes past him and does it himself, holding the door open for Sou. Sou slips past him and leans on the door so Kento can join him.

            Kento openly gapes at the bare auditorium decked in radiant spotlights and intricate archways. Sou can relate – it’s wider and more imposing than the pictures he’d found of it in the middle of his research. An abnormal sound escapes Kento’s throat when he swivels towards the stage, where a black grand piano sits in the middle.

            Sou can feel his heart tripling just at the sight of Kento’s awed expression. He hates to be the one to snap Kento out of his trance, but he really wants him to take advantage of the limited time they have with the place. “Go ahead.”

            “‘Go ahead?’” Kento repeats.

            “It’s yours for the next… I don’t know how many minutes we have left.” Sou can check the time, but he finds it hard to break their eye contact. “I wanted to give you something for your birthday. And I thought, since our trip is so close to it, it would be a good chance to do something really special.”

            Kento looks puzzled. “I already got my gift.”

            Sou gathers loose cloth from his bottoms, twisting them in his hands as he murmurs, “This one isn’t from the group.”

            “It’s from you,” Kento realizes under his breath.

            Sou notices him stiffening. “I’m sorry! This doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it?” he frets. “You’ve done so much for me, I’m so grateful. I only wanted to pay you back.”

            Kento does a 360-degree turn, surveying the room in astonishment, literally breathless. “Roses are expensive, but they’re not worth this much. Matsushima, you idiot. I should take you to a flower shop next time.”

            “It’s not about the cost!”

            “I know.”

            “Really, I only paid for the hour,” Sou assures him. “Which is why you should really go up on stage right about now. And don’t worry about the trouble, either. There wasn’t any, honest. I had a lot of help.”

            “If you’d given me more warning, I would have had more time to prepare myself and feel like I deserve to be here. Wait, I know what will help.” Kento marches up to Sou and wraps himself around the younger man, nuzzling Sou’s hair, urging Sou to cling right back. “Thank you. You seriously didn’t have to do this. I’m so grateful to be blessed with another year with you in my life.”

            And that’s just unfair. Sou is not supposed to hope for anything. It’s hard to ask that of him with Kento all over him, besieging him with sincere adoration.

            Eventually, Kento releases Sou and gingerly makes his way up the stage. That’s when Sou regains his composure, reminding himself that this isn’t the moment to get dejected over hopeless crushes.

            Sou pulls out his phone, snubbing notifications of new messages in favor of his camera app. He takes a few photos of the space itself, then he fixes the lens on the stage, capturing images of a man earnestly furnishing the air with a tender tune. He collects them until his gallery is chockful of freshly-acquired memories that, for the moment, is wholly fulfilling. His new, unsurpassable memories are safely stored. Regardless of how his own desires remain indefinitely suspended, he now has proof that he’d found a way to make Kento smile.

 

 

*

 

 

            “I know you’re awake. You have to let me in. It’s an emergency!”

            Fuma contemplates suffocating himself with his pillow as the knocking at his door goes from polite to urgent.

            Best case scenario, Kento’s favorite brand has gone on sale. Worst case scenario, Kento’s here to badger Fuma about that uncomfortable “talk” they had, for details that Fuma’s not wholly at liberty to give. Either way, Fuma doesn’t feel inclined to humor him at present.

            Unfortunately, Kento persists. “I need to talk to you! If you don’t open this door right now, so help me, I will vault the balcony and climb through your window.”

            No, he won’t. Kento is occasionally out of touch with reality and occasionally self-negligent, but he’s not suicidal.

            Fuma has no compunctions staying in bed and pretending to be asleep, even when he hears an offended huff on the other side of the door. When it’s followed by complete and blessed silence, he breathes out in relief.

            He ignores the troublesome inner voices spurring him to roll out of bed and hear Kento out, electing to try and get a decent night’s sleep. However, his resolve is smashed to smithereens by the faint sound of a balcony door creaking open. He jumps out of bed and, in his half-naked glory, throws open his own balcony door to spy on his noisy neighbor.

            “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Fuma bites out when he sees Kento on the other side, looking ready to make good on his threat. The heat behind his incensed exclamation is tempered by the harsh, chilly night air that strikes his skin. “Damn it, it’s freezing! It’s not the time for this. Get back inside!”

            Kento bargains, “Promise you’ll let me in the easy way and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

            Fuma has a few choices. A) He can let Kento paralyze himself in a pointless, ludicrous stunt. B) He can let them both die from hypothermia. C) He can welcome Kento into his room. Those are some slim pickings, in his opinion.

            Ultimately, he makes up his mind and tells Kento to meet him at the pool. At least that way, they’d be in public and won’t be tempted to act on any amorous impulses that tend to crop up when they’re alone together.

            Minutes later, they arrive at the pool at roughly the same time. They’re the only two around, which isn’t surprising given the time of night, at the tail-end of winter. Kento follows Fuma’s lead in sitting on the edge of the pool. He sits cross-legged, whereas Fuma rolls up his pajama bottoms to the knee and dangles his feet over the edge. He immediately regrets it. “Cold! Gah, I thought it’d be heated.”

            Kento takes a hand out of his hoodie’s front pocket to test the water’s temperature, reacting minimally when he dips his fingers in the water. “Maybe they turn the heat down after midnight.”

            To keep from shivering, Fuma swirls his legs around and gets his blood circulating. He keeps them submerged, unwilling to surrender to the pool’s arctic conditions. “What is it, then?”

            Kento tilts his head questioningly. “What’s what?”

            “Your big emergency!” Fuma snaps.

            “Oh.” Kento leans back, arms stretching behind him to support his weight. “I think… I may have gone on a date with Matsushima. And I may have gotten him drunk. That last part I’m more certain about.”

            “What?” Fuma isn’t sure which part he should be most concerned about.

            “I brought him back to his room a few minutes ago,” Kento says. “He looked ready to pass out. I don’t think he ate that much. I should’ve ordered him another dish or forced some of mine on him, but he said he was full from the snacks we ate at the museum café.”

            Fuma belatedly realizes that Kento must be a bit tipsy himself, between his unfocused babbling and his earlier plan to fling himself off of one balcony onto the other. “You got him drunk at dinner?”

            “Yes, at this nice Italian restaurant. Swanky, in fact. They had lobster carbonara.” Kento clasps Fuma’s shoulder to emphasize his point. “Lobster carbonara! That excessive, isn’t it? Oh, and wine, they had wine. Hence the drunkenness. It was a nice spot too, across from Carnegie Hall. We went to Carnegie Hall before grabbing dinner.”

            “…I see.”

            “The popular music venue. You know it. It’s a huge landmark for musicians – like, real musicians, different from what we do.” Kento drops to a whisper, in the closest he’ll ever come to demeaning the artistic integrity of their profession. “I told you guys about it, do you remember? I bet you don’t, it’s okay. My parents took me there, way back when I was still starting my piano lessons. I remember watching the orchestra play. It was so inspiring. And for about two weeks after that trip, I envisioned myself playing on that stage.”

            “And you went there with Matsushima,” Fuma prods him along to get to the point of his story.

            “He rented the auditorium for me,” Kento says. He shifts so that his elbow is on Fuma’s shoulder, evidently in one of those moods in which he constantly needs some level of contact. “Matsushima rented an auditorium in Carnegie Hall. And arranged it so I could play piano there. He said he wanted to do it for me as a birthday present. I mean, forget lobster carbonara, _that’s_ excessive.”

            So that’s what Sou planned for him. Fuma spares a minute to (somewhat grudgingly) acknowledge Sou’s gumption, before going on to address Kento’s query. He treads with utmost caution. “Matsushima’s always been the kindest one out of the five of us. Out of the whole agency, possibly.”

            Kento bites his bottom lip, and Fuma honestly can’t tell if it’s unconscious or if he’s deliberately accentuating it. Either way, it’s needlessly attractive. “You don’t think it’s a big deal? The kids are for real growing up, and one of them may have intentionally lured me into a date. That can’t be right! Tell me the wine got to me, and it’s my overactive imagination, and that you’re appalled by my uncontrollable ego.”

            “I am appalled by your uncontrollable ego,” Fuma responds dutifully.

            Kento frowns. “Trust you to zero in on that part.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “Seriously, none of this raises any warning flags for you?”

            “It’s not a calamity, Nakajima. You’ve rubbed off on Matsushima with your over-the-top gestures, that’s all. Sure, we don’t need two guys making the public cringe en masse, but he’s a hundred years too early to reach your level.”

            “It really caught me off-guard, though. I’m still not sure how to react,” Kento admits. “…You’re not the least bit surprised by what he did?”

            Fuma hesitates. Then, “He did tell me about it. Before we left for New York. He left out the details of his majestic plan, he just said he was giving you an extra gift.”

            “So, wait, he told you?”

            “He asked me if I’d mind.” Fuma instantly regrets mentioning it the moment he says it. He’d tacked on that final bit of information purely because of that hint of envy Kento can’t conceal when the younger members choose to confide in Fuma instead of him.

            Kento’s brows furrow. “Why, are you the birthday gift police?”

            Fuma snorts. “That’s what I said.”

            “Chief birthday gift inspector? Birthday gift boss, head of celebratory trade ministry?”

            When Kento’s chuckles fade out, Fuma’s chest clenches. Even out of his peripheral vision, Fuma sees Kento’s eyes sharpening into focus, mild intoxication clearing from his vision as he draws his arm back to his side.

            “Was that the reason for that talk last night?” Kento asks slowly. “Did you think Matsushima approached you because he has feelings for me?”

            Kento readily interprets Fuma’s sudden silence. “And you thought you could make the situation less messed up if we were to stop making out with each other.”

            Fuma finds his voice again, because he can’t _not_ comment on that. “We’ve gone way past ‘making out’.”

            “That’s not an answer! Tell me! Was that the reason you told me to pick up a random person off the street to get my rocks off?!”

            “I didn’t mean that as an insult,” Fuma defends himself in earnest, despite remnants of shame over his behavior from the other night. “I wanted to list out your options.”

            “A one-night stand wasn’t the option we needed to discuss!” Kento retorts. “For fuck’s sake, we were supposed come up with the options _together_. If you were concerned about Matsushima, you should have come to me so we could talk it out properly.”

            “You wanted me to break Matsushima’s trust?” Fuma’s rationalization does nothing to soften the look on Kento’s face. When Kento starts to turn away and uncross his legs, Fuma grabs his wrist. “You want to talk it out, then let’s talk it out.”

            “Maybe I want to clear my head. We need time to ourselves to think,” Kento throws Fuma’s tactics back at him, exacting a little bit of petty revenge.

            But Fuma knows better than to let him leave. “If you’re going to get angry, do it here. Don’t bottle it up and let it fester.”

            As he is wont to do, Kento matches Fuma’s stubbornness. It leads to a mini-scuffle more suited to kindergarteners than adults of their age. In a flash of inspiration, Fuma winds an arm around Kento’s torso and tosses their joined bodies sideways into the pool, aiming to cool them off, literally and figuratively.

            Kento coughs and convulses when they come up for air. Still wrapped around Kento, Fuma keeps them afloat, all while shrieking about stupid, cold American water.

            Kento shushes him, irate in addition to acting upon an ingrained sense of propriety, conscious of acceptable decibel levels for their current circumstances.

            Fuma’s body reacts with mortifying velocity. He wonders if he might have developed some Pavlovian reaction to Kento ordering him to keep quiet, though it’s just as likely the effect of Kento sopping wet and fitting snugly into him. Whatever it is, it dissolves his willpower without leaving a trace. “Okay, you know what, we really shouldn’t even be thinking about…” Fuma cuts off his own halfhearted lamentation, and all at once he’s smothering Kento’s startled squeak with his lips.

            Kento breaks out from Fuma’s grip only to put his own arms around Fuma, clutching him as he would a life preserver. He tastes Fuma’s chlorine-tinged skin, tracing the outline of Fuma’s lips with the tip of his tongue. The moment Fuma tries to catch it with his, Kento pulls away and kisses along his jawline.

            “Nakajima,” Fuma draws out the final syllable in complaint.

            “You were mean to me first.” Kento wrestles with the extra layers weighing him down, undoing the zipper on his hoodie and toeing off his slippers. Fuma helps him peel the clinging sweatshirt off, and Kento returns the favor by sliding the jacket off of Fuma’s shoulders.

            Eventually, Kento drifts a little closer to where Fuma wants him, kissing his bottom lip and nibbling it. He brushes back the hair matted on to Fuma’s forehead, yanks him down to plant a kiss on his temple, then splays a hand over the side of his neck. He drags his palm up and underneath Fuma’s earlobes, guiding him closer until he finally seals their lips together and sneaks his way inside Fuma’s mouth. They probe and tangle until it’s hard to tell who belongs where, constant motion shared between them a direct contrast to the otherwise peaceful water encasing them.

            When they break apart for air, Fuma only gets as far as breathing harshly against Kento’s throat, unwilling to move farther than strictly necessary. “If this is supposed to discourage me from being mean, it’s not a very good strategy on your part.”

            “Imagine what I’d do to you if you were actually nice.”

            Fuma groans, takes one glance at rosy, abused lips, and tugs at Kento to pick up where they left off. He thinks, between the two of them, they can turn this pool into a jacuzzi with the heat that they’re generating, and suddenly it’s become imperative that they test their capabilities. “You’re too hot.”

            Somehow Kento understood him, though his tongue was mostly in the other’s mouth. “Says you.”

            Amid the labored breathing and the smooth sloshing of the water, a sudden noise pierces through the atmosphere, a high-pitched timbre that intrudes on the scene. “Kento-kun?!”

            “Oh my god!” Kento jerks violently, not having heard footsteps or any such warning that someone was approaching. “Get off, get off!” he panics, pushing Fuma away with the bony edge of his palm.

            Fuma is still little dazed from the intensity of their make-out session, wanting to respond, “yes, I was _trying_ to”. Before he does, his brain registers the fact that Marius is suddenly in their vicinity while Fuma was doing untoward acts with his surrogate “mama” and oh god. He finally unhooks his arms and lets Kento free. Where did Marius even come from? Someone that large is not supposed to be able to sneak up on them.

            “Sorry! …Fuma-kun?” Marius tilts to get a better look, verifying his hypothesis.

            “Did you want something, Mari?” Kento slinks away to add more distance between him and Fuma, as if doing so gradually enough would clear Marius’s memory of the position he and Fuma had started out in, or camouflage the random pieces of clothing floating around them.

            “No, I’m sorry, don’t mind me. I’m going to bed.” Marius wavers a bit before waving awkwardly. “Um. Good night!”

            Nearly a full minute after Marius disappears back into the hotel, Fuma finds the words to sum up their present outlook. “That was not good.”

            “That was not good at all,” Kento agrees.

 

 

*

 

 

            The timing of being discovered and subsequently outed could have been better. Of course, Kento and Fuma would have preferred not to get caught at all, but the fact that it happened the day before the CD jacket photoshoots is icing on the cake. Their balance was knocked out of axis just in time to have it be immortalized in photographs.

            It isn’t insurmountable, in the beginning. When Kento and Fuma are made to stand back-to-back and throw their best come-hither looks at the camera, none of the staff catches any kinks in their dynamics. The pair has managed to grin and bear more suggestive positions, has weathered more volatile fall-outs. They’re well-versed in keeping up appearances under duress, enabling them to uphold professionalism under a range of complications.

            On the other hand, when the photographer asks Sou to get closer to Kento, the stilted air becomes impossible to overlook. Sou does as he’s told, except for the life of him, he can’t follow through on instructions not to look so visibly upset. The discomfort circulates through the set until the director hits his limit and calls for a break, asking them to regroup.

            They trickle back into dressing room area, exchanging few words among themselves. Fuma, Shori, and Sou scatter to occupy different corners of the room and busy themselves with whatever they can get their hands on. Soon after, Marius strolls in with Kento trailing him. Marius stops in his tracks without warning, making Kento collide into him and spill some of his bottled water onto the taller boy’s clothes. Marius yowls and tries to peek over his shoulder as Kento grabs a handkerchief to wipe him down.

            “Marius, seriously!” Fuma is at his boiling point, and his pent-up frustration overtakes him and hones in on one person.

            Marius instinctively cowers and turns to Kento for comfort. Kento provides it automatically, arms opening to welcome him.

            The sight does little to calm Fuma down. “That’s right, ask for sympathy instead of owning up to your actions. Tattle to your heart’s content without a single thought on how it affects others.” Fuma doesn’t even have to look at Shori or Sou to confirm his allegations.

            “I thought hard about what to do,” Marius asserts.

            “For ten minutes?”

            “Don’t be mad at him,” Sou rises to Marius’s defense. “Marius didn’t do anything wrong.”

            Shori intervenes, not giving Fuma a chance to reject Sou’s judgment. He grabs Marius’s arm and pulls him out from under Kento’s petting. “We’ll see if there’s a blow dryer we can use to dry Marius’s costume off right away. Hurry, we don’t want to make the staff wait. Sou, can you come help?”

            “I’ll follow,” Sou says.

            Shori and Sou stare each other down for a few seconds before the older of the two sighs and nods. “Fine. Come look for us.” Shori slips out, tugging Marius along with him.

            Kento echoes Shori’s sigh. “What did Marius tell you?” he asks Sou. “You know that kid has a tendency to exaggerate when he’s overexcited.”

            “He’s not a child, Kento-kun.”

            Kento takes a moment to reorient himself, unprepared for the hardness in Sou’s tone. A beat later, he reiterates his question. “What did he tell you?”

            Sou catch Kento and Fuma’s eyes, both sets wary and concerned, though one pair takes greater pains to hide it. “I’m happy for you two. I really am. I know it’s been awkward today, but Shori and Marius are happy for you, too.”

            “You have no clue what you’re talking about,” Fuma rebuts, but his tone has already begun to thaw. “Don’t take it the wrong way. No one’s putting you down here, okay? I’m only stating the truth.”

            “You’re saying I have no clue what I’m talking about – how is that not putting me down?” Sou asks, a genuine question rather than a provocative one.

            “Because you formed all these misconceptions without important details. It’s not what it seems. Nakajima and I are not together. We don’t want what you all seem to think that we do.” Fuma feels a penetrating stare burn into the side of his face, from the direction he refuses to heed.

            Sou goes from unnaturally guarded to unnaturally riled. “You’ll go as far as denying that you like Kento-kun? Fuma-kun, you’re the one who encourages me and pushes me to grow, and now you’re acting like I need to be shielded from reality!”

            Fuma inhales through gritted teeth. “Don’t talk about this situation and work in the same vein.”

            Sou turns away, certain he’d blurt out something he’d really regret if he were to stay locked with Fuma’s gaze. He catches a glimpse of Kento, who’s struggling to reconstruct the polished composure he wields on a regular basis. “Kento-kun, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to unload this on you. I had a feeling about how it would turn out, and I didn’t want either of you to worry about me.”

            “Don’t apologize,” Kento says, guilt twisting his features.

            “Sorry.” Sou winces at the automatic apology that slipped out of him. “I wasn’t decided on whether to tell you… to tell you _anything_ , honestly.” He tries to muster the courage to turn back to Fuma for his next line, but falls short. Instead, he mutters to the ground, “But it isn’t fair to Kento-kun that there are two of us denying these feelings.”

            Fuma’s jaw tightens further, pulse quickening with a fervent desire to respond.

            Both Kento and Fuma stay quiet, and it’s up to Sou to break the silence. “I’ll go help Shori and Marius,” he says, abruptly retreating into diffidence, and gingerly takes off.

            After a moment, Kento faces Fuma to accuse him, “You did it again! You made that decision without me, _again_!”

            Fuma laughs darkly, his already sour mood plunging towards rock bottom. “Yeah, it’s funny, I didn’t hear you contradicting what I said while Matsushima was in the room. You waited until he was out of earshot to protest.”

            Kento deflects the allegation with a rush of outrage. “Why do you get to choose what I can handle?! And not just me, you also get to choose what Matsushima can handle!”

            “Then prove you can handle it. Reject him to his face,” Fuma challenges him. “Until you can do that, I don’t want to hear it from you. I am so sick of looking up at you on your high horse.”

            Kento returns his glare, obstinately brushing off the kernel of truth in a heap of nonsense. “Well, I’m sick of rehashing the same fight three days in a row. So, go ahead, say you don’t want me back. But do not say that I don’t want to be with you, because you do not get to decide that.”

            He grabs Fuma’s collar, gets up in his face, close enough to kiss. He holds their position for a prolonged moment before he shoves Fuma away.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

            “And now I’ve made sure that Kento-kun will hate me and that Fuma-kun will never completely forgive me, not _ever_.” Sou plants his face into his knees. He should have nixed that stupid gift idea after all. If he really loved Kento, not to mention Fuma, he should have just toed the line and kept right on gushing about what an awesome duo they are.

            “Join the club,” Marius commiserates. “Kikuchi Fuma’s blacklisted members club. You can be my vice president.”

            Shori allows himself one eye roll before tackling Sou’s concerns. “Kento-kun doesn’t know how to hate anyone, least of all you. And Fuma-kun forgave you that time you ate that lunch set he bought especially for his grandparents. Remember that? He lined up two hours for it and all you had to say for yourself at the time was that you missed the note on the lid.”

            Sou is not consoled. He lifts his right palm upward, miming the action of lifting an object. “Lunch set.” He then lets it fall at the same time he raises his left palm. “Kenty.” He repeats the action, pretending to weigh “two hours” against “ten years”.

            “I didn’t say it’s the exact same situation,” Shori says. “My point is, although Fuma-kun might be angry now, he’ll get over it. He cares too much about you to hold a grudge over a couple of heated words.”

            “What about me?” Marius pouts.

            “You have even less to worry about,” Shori says, partly reassuring and partly dismissive.

            “Geez, can’t you be nicer than that?” Marius complains.

            In response, Shori pats him on the head, and that somehow does the trick.

            Sou rubs his forearms up and down, chilled to the bone although the heat is turned up. Shori’s pragmatism is a mild balm to the restlessness that came to life after he’d gone and acknowledged his and Fuma’s most deeply held affections in one sweeping statement.

            In all their time together, Sou has only ever been difficult in front of Fuma, at the very worst. It was when pubescent hormones would get the best of him, or when he didn’t get enough sleep, or when each of his body parts were strained past their limit. But not once in their history had he been that openly belligerent.

            From a distance, they hear screamed exchanges, alerting them to what’s transpiring in the room they fled from.

            “Oh god…” Sou sinks further into himself.

            “Should we go back in there?” Marius wonders.

            “I don’t think that would help,” Shori demurs. “And we have to return to the studio in about ten minutes.”

            When the shouting comes to an abrupt end, the three of them glance at each other in fear. Before one of them posits that their older members have resorted to murder, the door opens to reveal a sullen-looking Fuma.

            Fuma glances around the room, face strictly neutral and free of informative clues. “Shori, can you take Marius back out and have them check if his costume is in a good enough state?”

            Shori sneaks a surreptitious glimpse at Sou before answering Fuma in the affirmative. As he passes by Sou on the way to Marius, he clasps the younger man’s shoulder companionably, a small offering of solidarity. Marius is far less subtle, gathering Sou into a spontaneous hug before skipping after Shori.

            Keeping his glance fixed on the floor, Fuma mutters something to Shori, something that sounds like gratitude. He then reaches out to mess with their youngest member’s hair with a light hand that discloses the purpose of his gesture.

            When Fuma closes the door after them, Sou attempts to dislodge whatever’s clogging in his throat. (He suspects it’s his heart.)

            “Nakajima went ahead,” Fuma begins slowly. “Thought I’d warn you that he won’t be in the best mood between takes.”

            “Oh,” Sou croaks out.

            “And it’s not your fault,” Fuma says. “I managed to absorb every ounce of resentment he can produce. I think it’s a talent of mine.”

            Sou tries to hold it in, but the tears burst out of him like an abrupt calamity. The sight of it robs Fuma of his composure, and all he can manage is a tentative hand on Sou’s arm. “You can’t blame yourself for this, alright? That’s the truth. He’s so ticked off over something I said that I doubt he has energy to spare for anything else.”

            “I was afraid _you’d_ be mad at me.” Sou rubs his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. “I said too much a while ago.”

            “I’m not mad at you.” Fuma forces himself to admit, “What you said wasn’t off the mark.”

            “…Which part?” Sou sniffles.

            Fuma falters. Then, “Take your pick.”

            “You don’t… you don’t disagree with what I said?”

            “Not all of it. You were right that Nakajima and I still shoulder a lot of responsibility without consulting the three of you. He and I have to get better at that.” Fuma prudently chooses his next words. “Having said that, what’s happening between him and me is not some burden the group needs to share.”

            “But you’re acting like it is, in a way. Like it’s another thing you need to take care of so that the rest of us don’t have to worry about it,” Sou returns. “I know you don’t want to endanger the group – everyone knows that! And we know that you and Kento-kun think you need to carry so much weight on our behalf because you’re the two who are most capable of it.”

            Fuma gives Sou time to compose himself.

            Sou wipes his face one final time, tears starting to dry on his cheeks. “And that’s been true a lot of times before. It might still hold true, every now and then. But, please. Please, you have to look at us properly. Please notice that we’re doing our best to become strong enough to stand on our own.”

            Fuma feels rightly admonished, finds himself fighting off the instinct to shut Sou out with the first rejoinder he can come up with. “I do see that. I do. I don’t acknowledge it as often as I could,” he manages to admit.

            Sou pauses to gauge how much further he can push and how much Fuma is prepared to hear. He decides that what he say is more important than decorum, uncurling himself and straightening his posture. “More than one-sided feelings, there’s something else I can’t stand,” he goes on, propping up his voice with all the courage he can muster. “I don’t like how you’re hurting him and how you’re hurting yourself. I don’t get why you think I can’t cope with the two of you being happy together. There’s no way I’d prefer you hurting one another.”

            “Nakajima and I aren’t together.”

            Sou’s eyes flash with hurt, taking Fuma’s statement to mean that his words hadn’t made an impact.

            Fuma elaborates, “We aren’t, in the strictest of terms. What I kept from you is that Nakajima and I—” He searches for a suitable euphemism. “—would look for ways to get each other alone. Do you understand?”

            Sou nods. He gets the gist of it, at least, and doesn’t need any graphic details filled in. “Why wouldn’t that count as dating?” he asks curiously.

            “In some cases, it would,” Fuma replies in the tone he often adopted back when he’d help Sou and Marius with their homework. “In this case, the answer isn’t up to me alone.”

            Sou contemplates Fuma’s neatly edited response. “Why wouldn’t that count as dating to Kento-kun?”

            Fuma mentally tells the universe that its cue to give Sou more credit has become heavy-handed, not to mention repetitive. “Listen, I’m not downplaying what he and I have done. But, outside those moments, we never brought it up. We’d go back to normal, as if those moments existed on a different dimension suspended in time.”

            It’s time for the million-dollar question, Sou thinks. “Do you not want it to count? As dating?”

            Fuma takes Sou’s borderline prying in stride (and is more than a little proud of himself for it). “I’m guessing you already know the answer to that.” He doesn’t quite believe Sou when the younger man shakes his head and plays up his innocence. “Either way, I’d prefer not to bust out declarations right now. It’s not fair to Nakajima if I choose this second to clear things up once and for all.”

            “You’re right, I shouldn’t be the first to hear it,” Sou agrees. “And there isn’t anything left preventing you from clearing things up with him, is there?”

            Sou monitors Fuma’s reaction for signals to retreat and finds none. He’s fortunate for that congenital aura of purity that usually exempts him from Fuma’s volatile temper. Detecting no indication that he’d be met with hostility, Sou advances. “You wouldn’t make me the reason that you can’t be happy, would you? Me, or Shori, or Marius? You wouldn’t be so mean as to pin that on us?”

            Isn’t it just Fuma’s luck that there’s no shortage of ways with which his group can send him on a guilt trip.

 

 

*

 

 

            Kento tries not to sigh aloud when he spies Fuma through the hotel door’s peephole. He sets a full-body shakedown in motion, loosening the muscles that suddenly went rigid, before opening the door and letting the other man in.

            Fuma lingers near the entrance of Kento’s room, stance askew. Both his hands are behind his back, and he rocks on his heels a few times. “I wondered if something like this would happen before. I thought it would be Marius.”

            Fuma’s opening remarks are so unexpected that they make Kento untense, albeit fractionally. “You mean, you thought Marius would fall for one of us?”

            Fuma shrugs one shoulder. “I was seriously convinced he was into both of us at one point.”

            Kento chortles despite himself. “Where did we go wrong raising those kids?”

            “We didn’t do an awful job, if you ask me. Their incestuous tendencies aside.”

            “Yeah, you’re right. They are fantastic,” Kento concurs. “Way to go, us.” He spreads his hand out for a high-five, and Fuma walks up to him to connect their open palms.

            Fuma draws back again only to reveal a glittering gift bag that he’d been holding behind his back.

            “What’s this?” Kento eyes the offering uncertainly.

            “This is Matsushima’s idea,” Fuma confesses. “He said I shouldn’t let him outdo me. But even if it isn’t my idea, I’m hoping you haven’t started regretting your choice of who you’ve hopped into bathroom stalls with.”

            Kento shudders at the end of his sentence. “Don’t remind me. The showers were fine, but the toilets… I can’t believe we did that.”

            “The first or the second time?” Fuma checks.

            “Shut up, don’t keep track.” Kento takes the bag from Fuma’s hands. It isn’t sealed, all he has to do is tip one edge down to peer inside. “You got me slippers?”

            Fuma scratches a phantom itch on his nape. “You don’t like hotel ones, and I ruined the ones you brought when I threw us into the pool. I figure it can’t feel good to go barefoot if you got some sort of heel injury from yesterday’s rehearsal.”

            When Kento grimaces guiltily, Fuma catches that, too.

            “Yeah. As if you can hide that sort of thing from me.” Fuma shuffles a little, not entirely heartened by Kento’s wry smile. “I know they’re kinda lame. I mean, it’s not Carnegie Hall, so I guess Matsushima took this round, in the end. I let him outdo me.”

            “I couldn’t beat Carnegie Hall, either.” Kento is amused that Fuma could be this self-conscious after purchasing slippers that look more expensive than indoor footwear has any right to be. “Hey, this is really sweet of you. Do you know the meaning of giving someone slippers like these ones? It tells the recipient that you want them to find contentment in their life. No – more than contentment, you want them to find bliss. And you want them to know that they’ll be supported with each step they take.”

            “You just made that up.”

            Kento grins. “I might’ve. But honestly, I’ve been thinking about what it means to buy shoes for someone. Like, it could symbolize taking the first step to get to your destination. It’s a sign of readiness to go down that path.” Kento’s tongue swipes between his lips – it’s now his turn to be beset with nerves. “I have a confession.”

            It takes Fuma all of ten seconds to predict it. “You bought the boots I pointed out in the last issue of Men’s Non-no.”

            Just like that, Kento’s big revelation is swept out from under him, but he supposes it’s his own fault for overdoing it with the foreshadowing. “I… bought those boots,” he confirms. “They’ve been sitting in my room for about a month now. My plan was to give them to you for your birthday, and that didn’t happen. Then I told myself I have to give them to you before you buy it yourself, but I kept chickening out. I couldn’t even find the courage to wrap them.”

            Fuma stares at the bag in Kento’s hands with repentance on his face. “Why did I get you slippers, of all things?”

            Kento momentarily forgets to be mortified by his cowardice as he smiles at Fuma’s uncharacteristic (and unwarranted) self-doubt. “So that I have something to wear right now.” He moves to sit on the foot of his bed where he unsheathes his present and places it on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, Fuma comes to sit next to him.

            Kento slides his feet onto generously cushioned insoles, already adoring their plush comfort. He stretches his legs, lifting them into the air so he can get a better look at his gift. All the while, Fuma’s eyes are trained on Kento, not at all minding that the latter’s soft smile is directed at his newly adorned feet.

            “I love them. And I love that they reached destination, unlike those damned boots,” Kento says as he guides his feet back to the ground. “Seriously, I had to hide those boots on the top shelf of my closet because my palms would get sweaty just looking at them.”

            “We’re so bad at this,” Fuma says, strangely in awe of their mutual emotional ineptness. “Somehow Matsushima was the one that had his shit together in all this.”

            Kento chuckles. Then carefully, much like a tamer would approach a lion at rest, he ventures, “The things you said that night in your room, on our first night here… How much of it was to drive me away?”

            “I wasn’t trying to drive you away,” Fuma claims. “It was more of a stalling technique.”

            “Kind of like what you’re doing now,” Kento mutters. “What I’m really asking is, how much of it was true?”

            Fuma swallows the lump that leapt right to his throat. “I meant the part about the group. We made a promise we can’t renege on.”

            “The group is our priority,” Kento agrees.

            “Absolutely.” Fuma catches Kento’s stare from his periphery, and he musters the courage needed to meet it. “The good news is, it seems like we have the other members’ blessing.”

            “That is good. Although, it’s not as if we would do anything in front of them, either way,” Kento says. Then, “Sorry, I’m stating the obvious over here.”

            “Well, there’s too much that’s gone without saying, lately,” Fuma points out.

            Kento nods. He slouches subtly and prods, “So, that part you said about me being ‘too available’. Did you mean that as well?”

            Fuma lets out a pained exhale, as if his own words returned to manifest as a slap to the face. “That part was uncalled-for.”

            “But you meant it?”

            Fuma sorts his thoughts before truthfully answering, “I won’t always like that I have to share so much of you with so many people. I can’t help that. It upsets you when I get close to others, too, doesn’t it? But neither of us want to change or control the other, right? So. I think it’s a matter of acceptance. And within reason, we should do what it takes not to let the other person feel unsure.”

            “It isn’t going to be that easy in my case.” Kento is barely audible in disclosing that flaw of his, a flaw that threatens to expose his fragile constitution and dismantle the prestige reaped from years of self-reliance. “My head already gets murky when you look at someone beautiful for longer than five seconds.”

            “I might be able to do something about that… I mean, maybe? Like I said, within reason…”

            “It would help if we gave this a name,” Kento proposes. “Talking it out is really helping – I really appreciate this. It’s just… a name would make it really concrete to me. It could prevent my thoughts from going too dark, too often.”

            To some degree, Fuma understands that – the ravening agitation that sometimes emerges when Kento attracts riveted attention from one too many sources. “What name should we give it?”

            Kento’s lack of instantaneous response is a response in itself.

            “I’m asking because I genuinely want to know,” Fuma says frankly. “I’m not going to make a joke out of it. Can you trust me on that?”

            “I like the word boyfriend,” Kento manages.

            Fuma extends his hand between them, looking down at it meaningfully before glancing back up. Kento takes his cue and slips his hand in Fuma’s, and the latter gently closes in around him. Once they’re intertwined, Fuma sings the appropriate line from Kento’s solo, “ _Can I be your boyfriend?_ ”, and they share laughter that’s shy with giddiness. “If you’ll be mine. I mean, my… boyfriend.” Fuma stumbles a bit with the word, getting used to it. “I’m not aiming for ownership here, honest.”

            “Since we’re being honest… I don’t mind. I don’t want to own you either, but in a sense, you could be mine? You wouldn’t belong to me, but we’d belong together.”

            Fuma laughs, half at Kento’s unabashed romanticism, half to conquer his lingering embarrassment. “I don’t get it. You might have to teach me, professor.”

            Kento likes the sound of that, though not as much as the name they’d decided on. “I like ‘boyfriend’ better, if it’s all the same to you.”

            “You can have both,” Fuma offers. “Professor Boyfriend? Weird choice for a superhero name.”

            Kento drops his chin so he can peer up at Fuma, a signature idol look that also happens to make Fuma’s Adams apple bob. “I think it’s kind of sexy.”

            “You would.” Fuma feebly pretends that the hooded eyes aren’t having their intended effect on him.

            “I think _you’re_ kind of sexy.”

            “‘Kind of’?! I’ll show you ‘kind of’.”

            Kento takes Fuma’s other hand and prevents it from impulsively reaching out to grab questionable places. “While that’s tempting, dating involves going on actual dates. So, Mr. Kikuchi Fuma. May I take you out tonight?”

            “Holy shit. For real? You’re actually asking to go out and not relating it to work reasons?” Fuma says, smile playful and nearly childlike. “This boyfriend deal comes with perks, huh.”

            “If that’s a yes, go make yourself pretty and meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

            “Nope. I’m already pretty.” Fuma laughs as Kento rolls his eyes. “I’ll be there in fifteen and I’ll see you in thirty.”

            Kento lets go of one of Fuma’s hands to swat his chest. “You better not be saying that your _boyfriend_ isn’t as pretty as you.” The emphasis on the word makes Fuma’s lips quirk up further at the corners.

            Fuma retrieves the hand that got away from him before leaning in to kiss Kento’s cheek, obeying the other’s wish to start their night in a more traditional manner. “I’m saying my _boyfriend_ spends thirty minutes too long on something that requires no improvement.”

            Kento misses out on a couple of respiratory cycles thanks to the atypical compliment. Perhaps it’s a good thing Fuma only says these things once in a blue moon, otherwise Kento would suffer from chronic oxygen deprivation. “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” Kento vows, punctuating it with a short, dry peck on Fuma’s mouth. “And to go back to your earlier question, yes, the boyfriend deal does come with perks. I’m just getting started.”

            “Since we’re being honest, I’ve never been so scared and so turned on at the same time.”

 

 

*

 

 

            The most special aspect of their first official date is how normal it had been.

            Kento’s favorite part – if he had to choose – is their joint choice to give up and head to a diner, after learning the hard the way that making spontaneous dinner plans at upscale New York restaurants is outside the realm of possibility. The diner food was less than spectacular and the floor was suspiciously sticky, but none of it dampened Fuma’s mood. Fuma was relaxed, all smiles and all jokes, and that was infinitely more fulfilling to Kento than a six-course dinner with wine pairings. Fuma-smiles are cuter than baby koalas, lovelier than cherry blossoms in full bloom. They’re like a shot of endorphin straight into his veins, and in that diner, he got his fill of Fuma-smiles and then some.

            Fuma’s favorite part – if he had to choose – is when he and Kento found a medium-sized park to walk through. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as Central Park, and it didn’t have much in the way of activity besides the occasional jogger or dog-walker. But in the middle of the park, Fuma got to casually walk up to Kento under the guise of showing him the moon’s direction. His outstretched arm would come down to join the other in snaking around Kento. Fuma would drop his chin to rest on Kento’s shoulder, banishing every millimeter of space between them. Kento had gone absolutely still. Fuma had never held him like that, never mind out in public. They pretended to stare at a starless sky as they basked in their intimacy, careful not to ruin the delicate moment.

            At the end of the night, they find themselves in a similar position, only they’re down to their boxers and laying in Kento’s bed. When Fuma wonders if Kento has retreated into one of his quieter moods, Kento answers that for him by uttering, “I have another confession to make.”

            “You’re down to fuck on the first date?” Fuma guesses.

            “Don’t make me laugh, I have to come clean with this!” Kento scolds, smothering the beginnings of a giggle. “Remember our fight in our first night here? After you left me in your room, I didn’t leave right away. I kind of… I, um. Checked your phone to see if there was someone else you wanted to go out with.”

            Fuma’s heart slams violently in his chest, protesting the thought of Kento violating his privacy. Although, it’s at odds with the rest of him that’s more interested in remaining loose and cozy, and this removes any real energy from his reproach. “You can’t do that, Nakajima.”

            “I know. And I swear I didn’t read the messages. For the most part, I checked the names, if anyone popped up more than the others.” Kento’s voice comes out subdued. “Are you mad?”

            “Who wouldn’t be?”

            Despite Fuma’s matter-of-fact delivery, Kento is seized by tension. “I’m really sorry. It just tore at me, thinking that you came to like someone else. Not that that’s not an excuse! …You have every right to be mad.”

            “Right. Well, you picked an awfully good time to fess up to your crimes.”

            Confused by the ongoing mildness of Fuma’s responses, Kento takes a break from agonizing over his wrongdoings. “That almost didn’t sound sarcastic.”

            In fact, Fuma wasn’t being sarcastic at all, for the simple reason that Kento had been nice and pliant up until a few seconds ago. Kento doesn’t need to know how easy it could be for him to win Fuma’s forgiveness, but Fuma just wants him back in that putty-like state. “When I’m this comfortable, who knows what I’d let you get away with. Now, for your own sake, do a better job at being cuddled.”

            Kento isn’t sure how one ups his little spoon game – especially as it isn’t a privilege ordinarily granted to him – but the relief afforded to him by Fuma’s tolerance has him backing further into the younger boy’s arms. Fuma expresses approval by dragging himself up on one elbow and moving into a position that allows him to bring their lips together. They build to an exploratory kiss, slow and deliberate, until they’re running along every surface they can reach in their angle.

            Neither can tell when one started to rock against the other, only that it’s more noticeable when a distinct shape pokes Kento’s back. Kento turns when the hint of Fuma’s desire grows in more ways than one and tangles their legs together. He acknowledges that insistent shape with his own, only the thin material of their underwear separating them, and it draws dual moans between their mouths. Fuma’s hand travels enquiringly up and down Kento’s shoulders to his spine, while Kento reaches up to tease the hardening buds on Fuma’s chest.

            “One last thing we hadn’t cleared up,” Fuma pants against Kento’s lips. “Are you the kind of guy who sleeps with someone on the first date?”

            “If it’s you, yes.” Kento pulls at Fuma’s full bottom lip when he catches it between his teeth.

            Fuma groans when Kento guides a hand behind him, urging Fuma’s fingers over the crease of his boxers to make it clear what he’s asking for. “Yeah? Even if that first date was slightly less extraordinary than Carnegie Hall?”

            Kento extricates himself from Fuma and flashes him a sultry grin. “It sounds like you’ve got a lot to make up for.” He slinks off to retrieve the condom and lube that he’d packed for the trip. To his amusement, Fuma follows him to the other side of the room as if physically magnetized. Fuma goes right back to touching him, fingers skimming along Kento’s arms right before pulling at Kento’s waistband and helping him shimmy out of his last piece of clothing.

            “You’re eager,” Kento teases as he turns around with the lube and condom in his hands, seeing Fuma in the same state of undress. He isn’t one to talk, not when he’s automatically positioning his legs on either side of Fuma and grazing the long line of Fuma’s neck with his mouth once it’s close enough.

            “I must be synchronizing with you again.” Fuma lets Kento wind around him and clumsily navigates them back towards the bed, coordination rendered half-useless when Kento’s teeth scrape over his skin. Kento isn’t letting go of his forceful grip around Fuma’s waist, so Fuma has to wrestle the condom and lube from Kento’s hands. It leads to Fuma awkwardly juggling the items and causing them to tumble onto the floor. The ensuing retrieval process takes far too long, with Kento chasing down the lube as it rolls down the floor and Fuma’s shaky fingers slipping over the condom wrapper. They’re both laughing, snorting and breathless, when they find each other again.

           Once they jointly manage the herculean task of fetching the condom and placing it on the mattress, Fuma uses his now freed hands to uncap the lube and pour it onto his palm. “You finished the scented one?”

            “I threw it out. I know you didn’t like it.”

            Still trapped in Kento’s bear hug, Fuma eases Kento’s legs further apart and places slicked up fingers next to Kento’s entrance. He kneads the flesh of Kento’s bottom before carefully slipping in a finger. “I need you to use actual words if it’s too much. It’s tough to concentrate right now,” Fuma admits.

            “Keep going,” Kento encourages him.

            Fuma leans in for a tender kiss and grasps one of Kento’s thighs, lifting it up for more access. Kento winds his raised leg over Fuma’s hip, bolstering Fuma’s bravery to dive in to the knuckle. Fuma crooks his finger when Kento lets out another wanton sound, one that makes him think back to all times they had to stifle themselves so as not to be discovered. It’s not surprising that it’s just as hot when Kento’s allowed to be as loud as he wants.

            Kento’s hips buck helplessly with the addition of another finger penetrating him, the stretch and the slight burn of it making his cock throb and his knees buckle. He grabs Fuma’s hip and grinds hard against the younger man’s stomach.

            Fuma lets Kento ride him for a while longer as he pushes his fingers in with more intent, picking up the rhythm and sinking further with each dip. Kento takes his and Fuma’s erections in both hands, and they fuck Kento’s calloused palms together. Kento is reduced to broken gasping, torn between rubbing himself alongside Fuma’s member and arching back to get more of Fuma’s fingers splitting him open.

            “Gotta stop humping it if you wanna have it in you,” Fuma grits out.

            “Want it in me,” Kento exhales without slowing down.

            “Whatever my boyfriend wants.” Fuma’s shaking with his own need, as if he’d never needed anything so badly before in his life, while he carefully guides Kento backwards onto the bed. He stays on his feet, leaning over Kento and returning the kiss that he gets pulled into. He lets Kento pour himself into his mouth as he nudges his erection against Kento’s opening.

            “Condom?” Kento breathes out, cutting off his question with a loud groan at the sensation of Fuma’s slick hardness teasing his rim.

            “Oh, shit.” Fuma nearly forgot. He blindly gropes over the mattress for the foil package he’d dropped as he momentarily gives in to the urge to keep rutting against Kento, burrowing between his cheeks. It takes him a couple of tries to stop altogether, and his reward comes in the form of Kento sitting up to help roll the latex over the erection that has since plumped into a dark, furious red.

            Kento lies back down, hands pointedly gripping Fuma’s triceps, poising the other man to hover closely on top of him. “Come on, let’s do it already.”

            As badly as Fuma wants to follow Kento’s orders for once, he slides in at an agonizingly glacial pace, listening closely for warning signs to stop or slow down. “Doing good?” he whispers, not wanting to miss a tiny noise or a hitch of breath.

            Kento can’t bring himself to play the stoicism card and lie about the discomfort of accommodating Fuma’s length. On the other hand, he won’t be able to bear it if Fuma were to slow down, so he distracts himself by drinking in the sight before him. “You’re so cute. You’re blushing down to your chest.”

            “I know I said we need to talk things out more, but this isn’t the situation I had in mind,” Fuma mutters, if only because he isn’t sure that he wants to be called cute in this moment. He lands a soft peck over Kento’s mouth all the same, then busies his hands with assuring strokes over Kento’s hips. Fuma barely manages not to move too much, straining to fit. “Remind me why we don’t do this more often.”

            “Reason’s escaping me right now.” Kento draws a sharp intake of air as Fuma dicks into him further, past the initial discomfort of the intrusion, and now prodding him for dizzying bolts of pleasure. “Ki— Fuma. Can you—” He cuts his own question by a moan that’s ripped out of him.

            Fuma pulls back just a bit, a few centimeters, and lets himself get sucked in again. He opens his mouth to say “soon”, and surprises himself by telling Kento he loves him instead, making Kento’s eyes fly open.

            Fuma’s cautiousness eventually gives way to sharper snaps of his hips as they start to kiss in earnest. Kento moans louder and longer, sending vibrations between their attached lips. Fuma slams his hips forward, hands finding Kento’s to lace their fingers together. He starts to thrust with more force, fucking Kento rather than trying to get his cock to fit.

            Kento can’t feel his muscles, can only feel how hot and solid Fuma feels. All he can do is lift his hips and let Fuma change the colors of the world with each thrust.

            When they have to break off for breath, Fuma catches too-short snippets of Kento’s voice, wrecked and debauched. He listens to the other unintended manifestations of Kento’s craving, like his fingers digging into Fuma’s back, how tight he gets when Fuma pushes in a certain way. He holds on to the remaining thread of restraint despite all signs pointing to them wanting the same thing. It takes Kento verbalizing his request for more, Fuma, please, urging him to hand off full control to his primal instincts.

            Kento is practically folded in half, and he has to cry out at the fullness inside him. His chants of “Ah! Ah! Ah!” accompany the rhythmic sound of the headboard against the wall. When Fuma reaches down between them, Kento only needs a few tugs until white ropes streak out of him in prolonged pulses.

            He looks so gorgeous that Fuma feels as if they reached their peak at the exact same time. His hand joins Fuma’s as he palms himself with a clammy hand, jolting with spasms and hiccups, and Fuma bucks almost viciously against him.

            That perfect feeling is not yet wearing off for Kento, despite his mind starting to defog. “I love how you feel,” he whispers to Fuma in helpless awe. When he modifies that sentence slightly, Fuma shoves in as deep as he can go, a long groan reverberating through Kento’s bones as he finds his release.

            Kento soothingly caresses Fuma’s shoulders as the latter slowly returns to himself, tiny shivers quaking through him. Fuma uses the minimal strength left in his possession to cling to his partner, to let them refill their lungs by breathing each other in.

 

 

*

 

 

            On their last day in New York, they set out to traverse Brooklyn Bridge in full force. It was the lone activity that the five of them unanimously agreed upon. Shori wanted to visit a tourist spot where there was a less than 1% chance he’d get trampled (again), Kento yearned to snap photos of the iconic landmark, Fuma had been angling for any activity that got them outside of a cooped-up building, Marius was keen on witnessing sunset-soaked views, and Sou had his sights on an ice cream shop on one end of the bridge. Their one and only five-member group activity ticks off every box in the checklist. Though in Shori’s case, it’s arguable, as he had a close encounter with a cyclist that nearly clipped his arm.

            In fulfilling Sou’s vacationist objective, they are welcomed by a long queue in front of the ice cream parlor. It’s far more crowded than it should be, considering most people were in large coats and puffer jackets.

            Ordering is its own adventure, with plenty of flavors that intrigued the eye and the stomach. After completing this ordeal, they find a nearby park, not finding any downside in enjoying frozen desserts out in the open towards the end of the winter season.

            Sou hovers around the edge of a bench for a couple of seconds, eyeing the open seat next to Kento. He slides into the spot eventually, but not before making it obvious that he had to overcome an internal conflict.

            Kento promptly interrogates him over it. “What was with that hesitation? You’re too good to sit next to me?” In retaliation, he reaches behind Sou and dig his fingers into the latter’s ribs, trapping him and tickling him one-handedly.

            “It’s like the two of you are dating,” Marius calls out across from them, proving that he hasn’t got any better at reading the atmosphere.

            Seriously, if Sou didn’t know any better, he’d think Marius is trolling them. He passes up the chance to berate Marius, instead piggybacking the comment with a joke to show that he isn’t upset over it: “Fuma-kun better watch out or I might turn into a serious rival one of these days!”

            Fuma aims an ominous glower at Sou’s direction, and Sou nearly crushes the cone in his hand as every muscle in his body contracts in unison.

            Fuma snorts at Sou’s extreme reaction, trying to hold onto his poker face but failing abysmally and bursting into laughter. “I’m kidding. Nakajima can tickle you all he wants.”

            Sou exhales loudly, sagging from sheer relief. “That’s mean! You’re too scary!”

            Kento retracts his arm and lets it hang over the edge of the bench. The last time he and Sou had interacted, they had cameras all around them. “Thanks for sitting here and not letting me look like a loner,” he says, dropping his voice low, for Sou’s ears only.

            “I wanted to sit next to you,” Sou insists. “I didn’t mean to make it look like I was hesitating.”

            “You have to worry about your own feelings, sometimes,” Kento reminds him.

            Sou grimaces. “I must be really bad to get that from you.”

            Kento grins in self-deprecating concession. “Hello kettle, my name is pot. I’m here to tell you that you’re looking rather black.”

            Sou giggles. “Hello, pot. I think we match.” He plays his words back in his head and panics a bit over how his phrasing might have come off. “I don’t mean that we match as in I think I’m compatible with— N-not that I think we— Um. Uh. The pot and the kettle?!”

            “I understood you,” Kento reassures him, sparing him from trying to articulate his thoughts. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence that follows. He’s been dreading bringing up that topic with Sou, although Fuma has since given him advice on affording respect where it’s been progressively earned. He thinks back to that, keeping that piece of encouragement in mind and using it to power him through what he needs to do.

            “I’m sorry I couldn’t return your feelings,” he says, gentle and almost lilting to help the words settle. “I know an apology isn’t what you want to hear. But I think, more than that, I’m trying to express regret on my part. Because you are one of the best people I know. Really. This isn’t just more sweet words from me. I really mean it.”

            Sou’s lips quake into a smile. “Thank you.”

            “And what I said in Carnegie Hall, I meant that too. I’m so grateful to have you in my life, as should each and every person who has you in theirs.” Kento’s hand hovers over Sou’s, meeting his eyes questioningly. Sou nods his permission, and Kento covers the back of his hand, squeezing his knuckles and his fingers. “That’s why I’m almost sorry that Fuma brainwashed me somewhere along the way into being this helplessly stupid over him.”

            A pinch comes with Kento referring to Fuma by his first name, along with the reminder that Sou’s love is only returned up to a certain degree. But his heart soars over that ache, uplifted by the knowledge that the part that’s returned is done so with earnest depth.

            Sou has had time to prepare for rejection, enough that the pain it causes is nearly nostalgic. Receiving insight on his place in Kento’s heart wasn’t something he ever practiced, and that makes a deeper impression.

            Kento notices Fuma glancing at them and knows at once what the other is thinking. He gives him an imperceptible nod as he pats Sou’s hand. “I’m going to check that Shori and Marius aren’t giving each other too much grief. I’ll be right back, okay?”

            “Okay.” Sou looks over at the other members and sees Fuma getting to his feet and heading his way. Kento and Fuma don’t acknowledge each other as far as Sou can see, walking past each other without so much as looking at each other as they trade places. While it’s not unusual for them, Sou can’t help but feel that they’re exercising restraint out of consideration for him.

            Once Fuma is in front him, he shoves his cone right under Sou’s nose. “Did you try the taro flavor? Shori liked it.”

            Sou looks up at Fuma. “You don’t do have to be nice because you feel sorry for me.”

            “I forgot, I can’t do anything out of the goodness of my heart,” Fuma drawls.

            Sou hadn’t meant that at all, of course. “That’s a lie. That’s how you do everything.” He offers a playful smile. “It’s why Kenty fell for you, isn’t it?”

            Fuma gets a hold of Sou’s scalp and turns his head this way and that. His roughhousing is an expression of affection that Sou recognizes. He thinks of it as a hug in Fuma’s vernacular.  

            “You’re a good ki— guy. Good guy.” Fuma takes the seat Kento just evacuated. “You didn’t do yourself any favors referring to him as your mama all the time.”

            “Ahhh, was that my mistake?” Sou leans his head back with a sigh that’s mostly for levity’s sake, staring up at the sky that’s flushing ruddy in oranges and reds. “I sabotaged myself from the beginning, then. I’ll remember that for when the next love of my life comes along.”

            “You mean your first,” Fuma corrects him softly. “It’ll be the one that counts.”

            Sou cranes his neck to return his glance to Fuma. “Thank you, Fuma-kun.”

            “Don’t mention it,” Fuma says. “And, thank you, too. You can’t tell Nakajima this, but what you did for me… You outdid your Carnegie Hall gift.”

            Sou isn’t sure what Fuma means, and he’s even more unsure on whether he wants to ask about it. He thinks that the bashful happiness contained in Fuma’s hushed gratitude is all he needs to be certain of. Somehow, it seems he’d also found a way to make Fuma smile.

            Later on, Marius calls him over, “Sou-chan, Sou-chan!”, and the two of them snap a selfie in front of a setting sun that washes out their faces on Sou’s phone.

            Marius gets distracted by the sight of an airplane that he points out with more excitement than it warrants. Sou is swept up in it too, and they speculate on whether or not it’ll be the same type of plane carrying them back home tomorrow, whether it’s headed somewhere exotic or familiar.

            Sou thinks their future is a bit like that. He knows what their destination will be tomorrow, of course, but further down the line, those details are obscured. All he knows for sure is that he’ll have made it among the clouds, ascending to previously inconceivable heights. He’ll be strapped in next to four of his most favorite people in the world, people who are equally overjoyed to have him along for the ride.

 

 

 


End file.
